


Mutual Appeasement

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Bisexual Murder Girlfriends, F/F, Implied dress larceny, Just two villainesses having a nice time for once, Very Feisty Dialogue, Villainous Femslash Drabbles, costume porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

“You can wear something excessive. There should be plenty of people for you to mock. The hotel is _in_. So why are you giving me such a hard time about this?” Georgina grumbled into the telephone.

“Because it’s _fun_ ,” said Esmé, the inflection tugging at Georgina’s memory, “and because no hotel that hosts an _optometry conference_ is going to stay _in_ for very long.”

With a roll of her eyes, Georgina changed tack. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, I can always go alone. But,” she added slyly, in an attempt to sweeten the pot – a phrase which here means “make the idea of covertly attending a gathering of professional eye doctors sound more appealing” – “you might appreciate the dress I’ve picked out.”

“Let me guess." Esmé's tone seemed to suggest that the pot remained insufficiently sweet for her tastes. “It’s knee-length, probably with a slit up the back, almost _certainly_ blue, unless you’re feeling daring, in which case it’ll be some food color like mint or plum. There’ll be a belt involved, and you’ll wear it with those patent leather pumps I tried to throw out last July. Am I right?”

Deflated silence, followed by a mumble. “…it’s indigo. And those pumps were my mother’s.”

“I know they were, darling. Such a shame she wasn’t buried in them.”

As any successful person will tell you, generally without first asking if you would like to hear it, the achievement of a goal requires sacrifices. The goal of waking up very early in the morning, for instance, requires the sacrifice of going to bed early, regardless of whether or not one has just reached a pivotal chapter in one’s novel. The goal of becoming an actor requires the sacrifice of a great deal one’s free time, as well as, in certain circles, the sacrifice of one’s personal hygiene and aversion to kidnapping. The goal of convincing Esmé Gigi Geniveve Squalor, the City’s sixth-most-important financial advisor, to attend an event against her will, however, often requires a specific type of sacrifice known in wartime Britain and France as appeasement.

“If you come with me to the conference,” Georgina began, fervently hoping that appeasement would succeed with a financier where it had failed with a dictator, “I’ll let you dress me for it.”

Esmé hummed contemplatively on the other end of the line. “And by _dress you_ ,” she said, “you _do_ mean I get to _choose_ the outfit, correct? Not just zip you into one you’ve already picked out? Because I’m not falling for _that_ again.”

 _Damn_ , thought Georgina with an exasperated sigh, but conceded. “Yes. Fine. You choose the outfit. Is it a deal?”

“I’m on my way. I’ll see you at four.”

Before Georgina could protest that six full hours to cover the thirteen blocks between the Squalor penthouse and her brownstone seemed excessive, Esmé had already hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

“You couldn’t have picked something with a zipper?”

 **“** For the fourth time, darling, zippers are _out_. I couldn’t have found anything zippered in the Garment District, even if I’d wanted to, and the smaller the buttons, the more _in_ they are, so will you just hold still?” said Esmé, now on her third attempt to secure the final fastening at the back of Georgina’s dress. “ _There_. Now, go look in the mirror.”

 _We’re infiltrating an optometry conference in an hour_ , the hypnotist thought ruefully, _and here I am playing dress-up for a woman who owns a chainmail miniskirt._ Catching sight of her reflection, however, Georgina abruptly lost all interest in criticizing Esmé’s taste.

By some miracle, the dress she had chosen did not feature vegetation, live animals, electrical circuitry, ersatz tentacles, spikes, or any details that a fashion magazine might have deemed “architectural.” With its nipped waist, its snug skirt, and its low and elegantly-draped neckline, it bore a striking resemblance to a dress she had purchased a lifetime ago in Paris and recently managed to misplace. In fact, in another color, she might almost have chosen it herself.

It was, however, red: an unapologetic shade that put her in mind of currants and Cabernet. She hadn’t owned a red dress since her time at the lumber mill, primarily because she couldn’t see one without thinking of _him_ , mincing around in her scarlet satin holiday frock, managing once again to ruin her plans, her life, and her clothing in one fell swoop.

“Such a lovely color, don’t you think, darling?” With Esmé’s knowing eyes on her, glittering in the lamplight as she cast an unhurried and thoroughly approving gaze up and down her body, Georgina found herself in unexpected but wholehearted agreement.    

“I…” She grasped for a response that wouldn’t betray her careful sangfroid, knowing that too much enthusiasm would result in exactly the sort of ego boost a woman like Esmé Squalor didn’t need. “It fits beautifully,” she admitted at last.

“Why, of _course_ it does!” Esmé slid off the edge of the bed and sidled up behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I had it made to your _precise_ measurements by the most _in_ dress shop in the Garment District just this morning.” She laid a delicate hand over her heart in indignation. “I’d be personally offended if it didn’t fit you perfectly.”

Slate-grey eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint. “And how, exactly, did you _get_ those precise measurements, Esmé?”

“Oh, you know, I’ve always had an eye for that sort of thing,” she replied offhandedly, having taken a sudden and intense interest in her own perfectly-manicured fingernails.

“So this has nothing to do with my black Chanel going missing the last time you spent the night?”  

Wrapping her arms around Georgina’s waist from behind, the younger woman rested her chin on her shoulder, dark eyes wide with counterfeit innocence. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

“You know, for an actress and a felon, you’re a _terrible_ liar.” Twisting around to brush her thumb over purple-lacquered lips, she added, “Mm, though you do have other skills.” As if to validate this point, Esmé slipped one hand into Georgina’s hair, skimming the other from her waist to the small of her back and pulling their bodies flush before kissing her breathless.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I got here, you know,” she said. “In fact, I’m fairly certain I haven’t _stopped_ wanting to do that since the last time I saw you.”

The optometrist lowered her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I know the feeling.”

“You know,” Esmé suggested, “we _could_ just skip the conference entirely. You’re not even supposed to be there, so why not stay here, where you’re so very,” and here she slid her hand even lower, “ _very_ wanted?”

“Esmé.” Georgina intended this as a warning, but the first attempt came out as something closer to an invocation, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “ _Esmé_. We’re going to the conference.” Cupping the financier’s angular face in her hands, she brushed one more kiss over her pouting lips by way of an apology. “But I promise you, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“ _Fine._ Just let me put my dress on. I’ll be quick.” With that, Esmé strode across the bedroom to retrieve the garment bag she had draped over the bed.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” called Georgina. “Is it finally _in_ to take less than an hour to put your clothes on?”

“Oh, _shut up_.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Why are you laughing?” Georgina burst out as soon as the ballroom doors had closed behind them. Her voice, teetering on the knife edge of hysterical, echoed through the marble hush of the lobby.

Still snickering, Esmé dragged her by the hand into the nearest elevator, slamming both gates shut and jamming the emergency stop button. Safely ensconced in relative privacy, she chose to answer the question with one of her own. “Why did you think _that_ ,” she gestured back toward the ballroom, “was a good idea? They’re _optometrists_ , Georgie, not secret agents.”

Images from her final disciplinary hearing sprang to mind: the long table, the flickering fluorescent lights, the dour suits reminding her that she stood to lose much, much more than her optometry license. “Of course they’re not. Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, regaining her composure. “But it’s always better to work under an alias. You know that.”

“Not when the alias is _Evgenia Zamyatin_ , it isn’t! You don’t even look Russian.”

“So it’s a little on the nose.” Georgina shrugged. “But the accent was good, and it’s not as if anyone’s even going to catch the reference, let alone care enough to connect the dots."

Esmé considered this for a moment. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it _now_ , is there, _Evgenia_?” She screwed up her face. “God, couldn’t you have picked something shorter? I get tired just saying it.”

“Sounds like we need to work on your stamina, then.”

 _How does she **do** that? _ Esmé wondered, gasping slightly as her exposed back hit the cold, mirrored wall of the lift. _From bullshitting a lens salesman to pitching a fit when I laugh at her to seducing me in an elevator in the space of three minutes, but sure, fine, **I’m** the temperamental one.  _

A low murmur, rough and husky in her ear, interrupted her internal monologue. “I couldn’t have kept my hands off you much longer anyway. Not in that dress.”

Floor-length and clingy, iridescent teal, exquisitely beaded, utterly backless, and supported by a pair of stylized lace-and-sequin feathers in lieu of sleeves, the gown in question had clearly come from the more conservative portion of Esmé’s wardrobe. Resting her head against the wall and baring the long, pale column of her throat, she sighed contentedly when the optometrist, as anticipated, proved unable to resist a gesture of vulnerability. “That,” she practically purred, eyelids fluttering shut as Georgina’s tongue traced along her carotid artery, “was _entirely_ the point of wearing it, darling.”

Georgina never felt quite prepared when she said things like that. No matter how many times she reminded herself that the gesture stemmed just as much from Esmé’s instinct to feed her own ego as it did from a genuine desire to please, the thought that this vivid exclamation point of a woman had dressed specifically to entice _her_ still managed to thrill and arouse her in equal measure, and she couldn’t stifle a resonant moan.

“ _Shh_ **,”** implored Esmé, though she knew she hardly held the high ground when it came to matters of discretion. **“** They’ll hear us!” 

Reaching down to trail her hand up Esmé’s thigh, thankful for the frankly indecent slit in the beaded fabric, Georgina sank to her knees and looked up at her with a wicked smirk.

“ _Let ‘em_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for fabulous artist and all-around good egg @rawrrawrraygor, who requested a fic incorporating the following lines:  
> \- "Why are you giving me such a hard time about this?"  
> \- "Will you just hold still?"  
> \- "I didn't know you could do that."  
> \- "Why are you laughing?"  
> \- "Why did you think that was a good idea?"  
> \- "Shh! They'll hear us!"


End file.
